


The Boston Job

by cmonkatiekatie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Napping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:58:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmonkatiekatie/pseuds/cmonkatiekatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur can’t seem to make his schedule match up with Eames’, but that’s cool. It’s not like he misses him or anything</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boston Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wldnst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wldnst/gifts).



> At various stages, kyasuriin, bookshop, and fosfomifira all gave me tremendous amounts of help with this thing. Because they are great.

There's mud all over the mudroom. And soggy leaves and footprints that lead to a discarded pair of dusty brown shoes, one tilting against the other, directly in front of the door.

Arthur puts his key in the lock and kicks the pair of shoes into a corner. He frowns at nothing when he finds the door unlocked already, then proceeds to go about the business of deshoeing himself without setting foot on the cold, mud-soaked linoleum. It's kind of a delicate process. One that involves bearing down on the doorknob hard enough that it creaks.

Arthur manages. Once he's inside, he scoops his own shoes up with two fingers in the heels and sets them aside.

There's irritation simmering down low. He's definitely going to have to write another note about the shoe situation.

Ariadne tromps in after him and hops out of her boots, kicking them aside. Arthur stares as she pulls off her newly disgusting socks. She tosses them towards her boots before following Arthur in.

He's not even that fussed about cleanliness, generally speaking, but there's something about this job, some combination of location and time of year, that grates on his last nerve.

Ariadne looks at him. "You just gonna stand there, or what?"

Arthur takes one last look at the mudroom, sighs, and heads in.

Yusuf, still in the workspace-slash-lab, will be along later. He'll probably do something atrocious with his own shoes when he does get in.

-

Eames is asleep on the couch. Ariadne puts a finger to her lips and shushes Arthur.

"Yeah," Arthur says. He rolls his eyes, too, for good measure.

Eames responds by snuffling in his sleep.

Ariadne pushes Arthur towards the kitchen. Arthur allows it, but only because something in there smells really, really delicious.

"Holy fuck," Ariadne says.

"Shh," Arthur says, because two can play at that game.

Ariadne ignores him and reaches blindly for his sleeve, tugging him closer to the stove.

Arthur shuts his eyes and breathes in. It smells like fall. Like being tucked away and warm. It smells like seconds is what it smells like.

"What is it?"

"Stew?" Arthur says. "Some kind of stew."

"It's your dinner," Eames says from the doorway. He's leaning and sleepy, this close to all out yawning and rubbing his eyes like the poster child for bedtime. He waves vaguely towards the fridge. "Read the note."

"Does the note say you're amazing, because I will add that," Ariadne says.

Eames smiles at Arthur, mostly by default as Ariadne's eyes have yet to leave the pot. "It's implied."

Arthur lets his gaze drop to his watch. "You have to be up in four hours."

Eames folds his arms. "Yes, Arthur. Thank you for reminding me. What would we do with out you?"

Ariadne pokes lightly at the small of Arthur's back, some kind of subtle warning. He didn't mean it that way. Eames knows he didn't mean it that way. Or Arthur thinks Eames knows. He _should_ know.

It's been a long day. Arthur hates everyone. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "I only meant you didn't have to-"

Eames raps a knuckle on the door frame and turns toward the stairs. "I know what you meant. Night Ariadne. Arthur."

"Goodnight," Arthur says, but it's too low and too late and Eames is half way up the stairs anyway.

-

The note is pretty self explanatory. The stew has to simmer for another hour or so, and there's bread in the oven to heat up when they're ready to eat.

At the bottom of the note, in a different color ink, as though it was an afterthought, Eames has written:

Sorry about the shoes.

Arthur stares at it and laughs. Eames doesn't sound very sorry. Not even on paper.

-

The dining room table is covered in newly outdated schematics and a book about bird migration in the Americas and Arthur's third laptop and Yusuf's messenger bag and thick catalogues that keeps coming addressed to a Dr. Lane Grant, so they've been eating in the living room, hunched over the coffee table that sits a hair too low for comfort.

Ariadne settles back into a corner of the couch with her bowl, Yusuf props his feet on the table, and Arthur gives up trying and makes himself comfortable.

They eat in silence, and Arthur mostly thinks nothing of it. Sure it's unusual, but they've been at this thing nearly two weeks now, building and planning and dipping into each others dreams; at some point, conversation is bound to run dry.

Also, Eames' dinner is just as good as it smells. Who needs small talk?

It's when he's dragging his last corner of bread through the broth that he notices it. Ariadne and Yusuf are exchanging looks. Pointed, silent conversational looks that seem to have everything to do with Arthur, if the way they keep nodding in his direction is anything to go by.

"What?" Arthur asks around a mouthful of food.

"So did you grow up near Boston?" Ariadne asks innocently.

Arthur doesn't get it. "I grew up in Albuquerque, why?"

"Huh," Ariadne says, "I'd never had guessed that. Albuquerque, really?"

"Uh, yeah, Albuquerque. What's going on?"

"Just, you know, making conversation," Ariadne says lightly, "Yusuf?"

Yusuf looks at Arthur and Arthur looks back. He opens his mouth and shuts it again.

Yusuf turns to Ariadne. "I'm not asking him."

Ariadne manages to look long-suffering and put out from her cozy corner of couch. "Alright," she tells Yusuf, "but I'm only paying half if you're right."

Arthur's tension headache, the one he's managed to lull into submission via warm socks and comfort food, is creeping back in around the edges. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Don't. Don't get upset," Yusuf says.

Arthur sets down his bowl. "If only people said that when they weren't gearing up to be extremely upsetting."

"It's not that bad," Ariadne says.

"Yusuf wants to know- No wait, we should go further back." Ariadne puts a hand on Arthur's calf and pats. "Arthur," she starts.

"Jesus, just spit it out."

Ariadne looks at him. "You've been kind of testy lately. Testier than usual. Yusuf thinks it's because you're not getting laid."

Arthur opens his mouth, but Ariadne holds up a finger to ask for a second. "It was shitty of us to bet on it, and I'm sorry. Yusuf's probably not at all sorry, but." Ariadne shrugs, sort of like what can you do, morally suspect individual and all. "We just. What's going on? Are you- We just want to know that you're okay."

Arthur laughs, because what else can he do. "I'm fine," he says. Because he is. Nothing is _wrong,_ it's just. It's just off. This job is not like other jobs. It should be, but it's not. 

Ariadne looks unconvinced that Arthur is in fact fine. "Really," Arthur says. "What was the Boston thing about?"

Ariadne waves her hand. "Nothing. Didn't pan out."

Yusuf clears his throat. "She was betting on unhappy childhood memories dredged up by the job."

"Hey, my childhood was fine."

"Right, we're assholes. But we're assholes who care."

"It's the sex thing, right?" Yusuf's tone is vaguely hopeful.

"I just broke up with someone."

"Oh." They say it in unison. It comes out 'oooohhhhh', like suddenly everything has become clear. It's kind of insulting.

"We weren't that close," Arthur says. "I just meant I'd had sex recently. I'm fine."

And just like punctuation, Arthur hears the rusty sound of old pipes gearing up. Eames is up, he guesses.

Ariadne looks at the ceiling contemplatively. "Oh. Oh my god. It's Eames."

Arthur scoffs. "I did not break up with Eames." Breaking up necessitates being with someone, and Arthur has never been with Eames. He would remember.

"No. No no no. It's Eames. He's gone nocturnal so there's nowhere for your pent up aggression to go."

Yusuf leans back in his chair and says, "You know, that makes sense," just as Arthur says, "That makes no sense."

"Wait. Hear me out," Ariadne says. "He's your, like, partner in verbal sparring. You have no one to one up. It must be _killing_ you."

There’s this sound Arthur makes, this high pitched scoff thing he hasn’t used since middle school. That’s nice. "But I can one up you guys,” he says. “If I were the one upping type, which I'm not, but if I were. I have you."

Yusuf laughs and Ariadne says, "Oh, Arthur."

"I'm. What is even happening here?" Arthur is at a loss.

"You're just so nice to us," Ariadne says.

"So professional,” Yusuf adds.

"You're mad that I respect you? I can be mean. Especially to you." Arthur points to Yusuf and mumbles something about Cobb's cut. He turns on Ariadne. "And you, you're climbing up my shit list pretty rapidly."

"Stop changing the subject," Yusuf says.

"Yeah, let's go back to the fact that you _miss Eames_."

"I do not miss anyone. I've worked plenty of jobs without him and I've always been fine." Arthur makes a frustrated noise and corrects himself, "I _am_ fine."

"Not recently," Ariadne says. And it's true, the four of them have worked together on the last five, no six, no five jobs. 

"I'm. Fine," Arthur says. His jaw is kind of clenching of it's own accord.

"Yeah, you sound great," Yusuf says. "Maybe you can catch him before he leaves and insult his intelligence. Then maybe tomorrow will be better for everyone."

Arthur gets up to drop his bowl in the sink. He says, "I'm going to bed."

-

Arthur lies in bed and listens to Eames get ready to leave. He listens to the muted sounds of Ariadne and Yusuf talking downstairs. Things settle, and then things percolate and then Arthur rolls over and huffs to no one. Ariadne is right. Or she isn't wrong, and that's practically the same thing.

Maybe it’s the close quarters. Maybe this is the last job where he agrees to rent a house. He’s not sure the convenience and secrecy outweighs the privacy of a lovely, isolated hotel room.

Arthur likes to compartmentalize. For example, he likes to keep his coworkers in neat little suite shaped boxes. Things get so messy once you introduce living rooms.

-

The next morning Arthur slaps an orange post-it on the door on their way out. It says ‘thanks for dinner'.

He doesn't see Eames for three straight days, but Eames tacks his post-it up on the mirror in the bathroom. ‘You're welcome’ is scrawled in black sharpie over Arthur's tiny block letters.

It's not insulting Eames’ intelligence, but it’s, you know. It's something.

-

There's some overlap in the ins and outs of Arthur's job description and Eames', but not a whole lot.

Arthur, as per usual, is tasked with delving into the mark's history and Eames, as per kind of semi usual, is posing as night security at the mark's research facility. It works well, opposite schedules or not. But Eames has the access and Arthur has the information and at some point they're going to need to pool their resources and get this thing off the ground.

That's where the overlap comes in.

That's the part Arthur can't stop thinking about.

He blames Ariadne. Yusuf's not helping either.

He watches them. Ariadne pushes the (newly updated) schematics of Anna Jacobs’ research facility to a corner of her drafting table and makes room for the two of them to eat lunch. She pops the top of her coke before diving into her sandwich. Meatball sub, just like she asked for.

She makes a face at it. Like of all the disappointments she's weathered in her short life, this sandwich's betrayal is the very worst.

Yusuf drags his stool closer and snakes a sip of her coke before holding out his tuna melt, the one he asked for.

They switch, and Ariadne keeps talking and Yusuf keeps interrupting. Nothing but a blip. Nothing but a tiny exchange neither of them will remember in an hour.

Arthur picks up his phone and texts Eames. 'need to discuss the job. When's your next day off.'

The return text is almost immediate. 'wake me up when you get in'

Then a moment later, 'monday. wake me up.'

-

Arthur cuts out early. He can't see Yusuf, but he leaves Ariadne sketching something intricate and beautiful and incomprehensible in the only well lit corner of the work room. Part of him wants to stay, wants to get a better look and let the pieces fall together until he understands. More of him wants to go though.

He turns on some lights as he heads for the door. It gets so dark so early, and he's seen Ariadne absorbed enough to squint well into the evening rather than think of getting up.

\- 

Eames is asleep on the couch again. Arthur can't remember ever feeling as comfortable as Eames looks right now.

The front door slams behind him and Arthur says, "You have a bed, Eames."

Eames pulls his feet up and frees up some space for Arthur. "I like this couch.”

Arthur sinks into the dip in the corner. Arthur's couch at home is firm in all the right spots. Like at the back, and on the cushions. The arm rests offer all kinds of support. "You would," he says.

Eames keeps his eyes closed and smiles.

"So," Arthur says. "I'm waking you up. To talk. About the job."

"Yes," Eames says, "that was the plan. And here I am awake. Going swimmingly already."

"You could look more awake."

"Arthur," Eames says, making no attempt to move, "we do this job in our sleep. Quite literally. This is practically business casual." He stretches out so his calves press into Arthur's thighs, probably just to irritate Arthur.

It doesn't really bother him. Ha.

Okay, it kind of bothers him. The part where Eames is rubbing his socked toes against each other bothers him. Arthur curves a hand over both his feet and Eames stops, so Arthur puts his legs up on the coffee table and settles in, head back.

Arthur talks at the ceiling. “We need to sit down and go over the layout of the lab, the places we can go, the places you’ve seen. Ariadne, too, if she’s going to recreate it.” Arthur stops and turns to Eames.

“Still awake,” Eames says into the brief silence, “Listening and everything. Do go on.”

“So we’ll do that Monday, I guess. Or there’s nothing saying that she and I can’t work from home, match our schedules up a little. That would leave Yusuf alone at the lab, but he’ll manage I’m sure. Hasn’t blown anything up yet.” 

Arthur’s rambling. Arthur’s eyes are closed.

“Mmm,” Eames says.

“Yeah,” Arthur answers.

-

Arthur wakes up with Eames' feet still in his lap. Eames has a hand over his belly and his face turned toward the back of the couch.

"Fuck," Arthur says. It seems to encompass all sorts of things. He shoves at Eames feet and that does the job of waking him up. 

Eames scratches at his stomach. "That went well."

"We can try again," Arthur says. "Go back to sleep."

"Sure," Eames says. "When?"

Arthur rolls his neck and rubs at where it aches. This is why naps suck. This is why people don't sleep sitting up in too deep couches. "Before your shift." Arthur smiles. "Wake me up."

"Yep," Eames says through a stretch. He slumps forward and off the couch.

Arthur tries not to, but he asks anyway. "Where are you going?"

"I have a bed, Arthur."

-

Given the sizable afternoon nap, Arthur figures waiting up for Eames to knock on his door will be no great hardship. He's got plenty of research to do while he waits.

He opens his laptops, two of them, and gets to work.

Eight hours later, he wakes to early morning sun streaming in his window. No sign of Eames.

He's never asked, but previous partners have been very forthcoming about Arthur's sleeping habits. When he sleeps at all that is. He doesn't snore, doesn't talk, doesn't so much as move, and he sleeps very light, waking at the slightest provocation. Of course, no one has mentioned this in an entirely positive light. Generally it's mentioned in conjunction with the word "creepy". Sometimes the slight is mitigated by a kiss or a laugh, something, but most times it's come towards the end.

All of which is to say that had Eames made the barest attempt to wake Arthur, he would have succeeded. Since Arthur hasn't spoken to Eames since their accidental nap, Arthur is forced to conclude that he didn't try.

He leaves a mostly calm, slightly irritated message on Eames' voicemail and heads in early.

-

The light is too bright when Arthur's eyes flutter open, and it takes a minute to register that Yusuf is aiming a pen light directly into them. Arthur's face scrunches up and he makes a tiny, annoyed noise.

"Just testing the compound," Yusuf says, as amiable as always. "Any sensitivity to light?"

Yusuf smiles and Arthur glares.

"I mean anymore than usual."

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again. His vision is normal. He's got a minor ache in the back of his skull, but that's been there since before he went under, he can hardly attribute that to a variation in the somnacin.

"I feel fine," Arthur says. "Good." Arthur's had this conversation a lot in the past few days.

Yusuf tucks the pen light into his pocket and rocks once on his feet. "So Ariadne was wrong then?"

"Wrong?"

"You got your face time with Eames, but you're still..." Yusuf trails off, talks with his hands and a frown.

"What? Aggravated? Irritated? On edge? _Testy_?"

"Yes," Yusuf says, "all of those."

The amount that Arthur is uninterested in relating tales of accidental naps with Eames is epic in proportion. He looks to the left, where Ariadne is still under. He looks to the right, where the light hits tiny, golden vials of dream inducing drugs. He sighs. “We fell asleep.”

Yusuf is silent. Arthur chances a glace up at him and his face is oddly blank. “You’ll try again,” Yusuf tells him. “You’ll get it sorted.”

Arthur nods, but he freezes when Yusuf squeezes his shoulder. And there it is, that awful knowing look in Yusuf’s eyes. “You’ve got a message.” Yusuf nods towards Arthur’s cell. “Call came in while you were under.”

Arthur doesn't bother listening to his message, just walks outside and calls Eames back.

The sky is blue, but the temperature has been dropping steadily since morning. Arthur's fingers feel like ice even before Eames picks up. Arthur switches hands and flexes his hand and wishes for the toasty pair of gloves he left at home. At the house. Whatever.

"Hey," he says.

Eames' response is muffled by either food in his mouth or a full face mask. Maybe a muzzle.

Eames makes a wet sound with his teeth. Food it is.

"You're disgusting," Arthur says.

Contrary to history, Eames doesn't rise to the bait. "Hey listen," Eames says, "I meant to wake you this morning, but-"

"It doesn't matter," Arthur interrupts, "I've got an idea."

"All right," Eames says, "Say the word and I won't go on and on about how it looked like you needed the sleep and I couldn't bring myself to interrupt you."

Arthur closes his mouth and stops himself from biting the inside of his lip.

"Next time you should take your shoes off. Changes the whole experience."

Arthur clears his throat.

Eames lets Arthur's silence simmer a little, then says "You mentioned an idea?"

\--

They pass in the hallway when Eames is off to bed and Arthur's headed to the shower.

"Equipment's on the table," Arthur says. "Tailing Jacobs tonight. We can run through security." Arthur's sentences are choppy this close to legitimate sleep.

Eames nods and punches Arthur's shoulder lightly. His sentences are non existent this close to the other side of legitimate sleep.

\--

Jacobs keeps extremely regular hours, for an experimental physicist. Regular in that they're consistent, not in that they're normal person hours.

Come to think of, Jacobs is the only experimental physicist that Arthur is acquainted with. It could very well be that experimental physicists are generally incredibly consistent night owls.

But Arthur is not paid to be interested in other experimental physicists. Just this one. And this one keeps late hours.

Arthur has no trouble tailing Jacobs from the gym, to her home, and then straight back to the lab.

Arthur circles the building and pulls up five minutes after Jacobs has parked and gone in. Jacobs only uses this entrance at night, when street parking is both abundant and free. From his spot Arthur can see straight into the main lobby, well lit and vacant. The security desk is set too far back to get a line of sight, but Arthur knows that Eames is in there.

He gives Jacobs another five minutes to get past the desk and down to her lab.

"There, Eames?" Arthur asks.

It takes a beat, but Eames hums down the line. Arthur's quick enough on the uptake to figure that this means Eames isn't alone.

It could be Richard, it must be Richard. "Richard?" Arthur asks.

"Dick, what is that awful smell?" Eames answers.

"Ah, nicknames. Your relationship has progressed."

It's easy to pull up the intel on Richard Blanchard while Eames makes offended sounds at Dick's sandwich of choice. Tuna, apparently. A couple of clicks and two passwords later, Arthur's got an arsenal of information at his disposal. He could read Eames Dick's last four tax returns, were he so inclined. As it happens, though, he's got a much more interesting story to tell.

"Hey," Arthur says, "funny story about Dick. Did you know he's been arrested three times in the last five years for public indecency?"

Eames coughs into Arthur's ear, loud and choked. There's the unmistakable sound of three hits, Dick slapping Eames back maybe.

Arthur goes on. "And aww, all with the same special lady. All on September 3rd."

Eames clears his throat. "How's Marla doing?" Eames asks Dick. Or Arthur. Or Dick and Arthur.

"Marla Grant?" Arthur asks, scrolling through the police reports. "That's actually kind of sweet."

There's the incomprehensible mumble of Dick's side of the conversation then Eames laughs.

Just when it starts to get annoying that Eames can't talk to Arthur save for barely emotive sounds and veiled conversation with someone else, Eames tells Dick that he's going to make his rounds.

Arthur hears the clack of his shoes, then sees a shape approaching the front door. Eames raps twice on the glass before making a left and disappearing behind a side door. Arthur turns in his seat and smiles down at the center console.

Eames keeps his voice low and it rumbles pleasantly in Arthur's ears. He goes through the layout of the building, things Arthur already knows by heart. Eames knows this, but he does it anyway.

"There's a second exit in the back," he says, "through the loading dock. I can get us out through there."

Arthur nods, says yeah, shifts in his seat.

"I don't have access to the central lab, but lifting the key won't be a problem. Doing it in advance won't work. Too much opportunity to switch out the locks, change the codes, all that fun stuff. Better to do it same day. Have I lost you, Arthur?"

"I'm here," Arthur says.

"You've gone and gotten all quiet. You're not drifting off again? You haven't developed a Pavlovian response to my presence?"

Arthur says no through a smile. "This is helpful, keep going."

"Yeah, all right. So the idea is that we keep the transition from to reality to dream as seamless as possible. Make the first level appear as though she’s not dreaming at all, which should give us more time on the second level before the projections get outright homicidal. Militarization does make things especially fun, doesn’t it?”

“The funnest,” Arthur answers, voice flat.

“The next step, then-”

“You need to go under with Ariadne,” Arthur says. 

Eames doesn’t respond right away, but when he does he asks, “And why is that, Arthur?”

“You’ve seen the lab and she hasn’t. You need to design the first level together.”

“Arthur,” Eames says, and there’s a definite lag before he goes on. “Why are you here?”

Arthur holds on to the steering wheel in his very immobile rental car. He twists his fists around the rubber and it doesn’t give. “Do you want me to go?”

“I didn’t say that,” Eames says. 

Something catches out of the corner of his eye and Arthur leans forward and looks up through the windshield. Eames is on the third floor, close to the window, flash light pointed down. The beam doesn’t go very far, but if it did there’d be a line on Arthur.

“Sure that’s wise?” Arthur asks. “Aren’t you being recorded right now?”

Eames laughs, light and low. “No worse than you casing the joint. Dick’s knee deep in the crossword and all the real action is sub basement. We’re fine.” The flashlight bobs and the light points a different direction. Arthur has to squint to make out the vague shape of him through two plates of glass and about a thousand yards, but there Eames is, crossing his arms. “It’s worth the risk,” Eames says, quieter still than he’s been all night.

“At least lose the light,” Arthur says. The light goes out and Arthur can’t see Eames any longer.

“Are you going to answer the question?”

Arthur could feign ignorance, buy a little more time with a simple ‘what question’, but the situation is embarrassing enough without bringing evasion tactics into the mix. Arthur can’t help leaning back in his seat, though, like Eames might be able to see straight down into the car. It’s like that game, if I can’t see you, you can’t see me, only neither of them can see shit and no one’s closing their eyes.

Arthur exhales and says, "Ariadne says I miss you."

"Of all the things to miss," Eames says. It's self-deprecating, of course, but it's also kind because Arthur knows that tone. It's the tone Eames uses when he's told something he already knows. Something he knows well. Something he's terribly well versed in.

Arthur doesn't take it back. Not all the way.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, “technically she claims I miss one-upping you, or giving you shit. I can’t remember her exact words, but something like that.” If Arthur presses hard enough at his eyeballs, maybe all this will go away. At the very least, he can start thinking about how painful it is rather than how insanely uncomfortable he is.

“How utterly flattering, you two say the nicest things.”

“Right.” Arthur says. “So there’s your answer.” His heart is steady, but goddamn it’s loud in his ears.

“So you’re here because you do in fact miss me, or you’re here because you’re testing a theory?”

“I’m here,” Arthur says, “because I want to be here.”

“And because of the job,” Eames adds.

“And because of the job,” Arthur confirms.

Eames makes a noise and Arthur doesn’t know exactly what it means, but the way it makes his ears burn is sort of telling.

Arthur blows all the air out of his cheeks and leans his head back. 

Eames doesn’t bring it up for the rest of the night. Just talks Arthur through the building’s security. Arthur could be relieved or he could be disappointed. He honestly has no idea.

-

Arthur’s already tenuous sleep patterns are thrown off by the whole staying up late to talk in Eames’ ear about things that don’t actually matter thing. Or tailing the mark into the wee hours thing. Whichever. When he does finally stumble downstairs, it’s well into the afternoon.

Eames is asleep on the couch, as per usual.

He's brought a blanket with him this time, only it can't be keeping Eames all that warm if it's mainly draped all over the floor. In Eames’ defense, he does have what looks to be one extremely cozy foot.

For a full five seconds, Arthur considers leaving him like that. It would serve him right, what with all the knowing of shit Arthur isn't ready to deal with.

"Fucking. Shit," Arthur says. He picks up the blanket and tucks it back around Eames' shoulders. He hears Eames sigh into it, the asshole.

Arthur’s not planning on sticking around, but Eames stretches and smiles and says, “Morning, Arthur.”

“Morning,” Arthur says. “I’m going to make coffee.”

The hand on his wrist is a surprise, when it comes, as is the forcible tug. As is the serious expression that has taken up residence around Eames’ eyes and mouth.

“Not now,” Arthur’s brain says, “not yet.” But Eames doesn’t hear it, even if he sees it in Arthur’s face.

“Just a minute,” Eames says. He’s still got a pull on Arthur’s wrist, so Arthur gives up and follows it down to a spot on the couch.

Eames shifts around a bit, so he’s tangled in the blanket Arthur so helpfully tucked him into, but he winds up sitting next to Arthur, close enough to bump shoulders. Which he does. A couple of times.

Arthur tries not to frown, but he can’t help himself. He’s in no mood to be let down easy. Or hard. He’d rather leave the letting down for much, much later.

“Hey,” Eames says, “hey. I only wanted to tell you-”

Eames cuts himself off as Yusuf and Ariadne come tromping down the stairs like a pair of extremely bundled and height disparate elephants.

It’s possible that, since he woke up, Arthur has existed so deeply in his own head that it didn’t even occur to him that anyone else was home. Except for Eames. He knew Eames was home, but that’s only because Arthur has all but pulled Eames into the deep parts of his head.

“Hello, boys,” Ariadne says.

Arthur holds up his hand, and Eames says ‘hello’ just as brightly as Ariadne.

"So,” Ariadne says, and there’s a long, assessing pause, “we're going for a walk," Ariadne says. 

Arthur reaches out, says, "Hey, that's not. You guys don't have to do that. You don't have to leave."

"Hey," Ariadne says, "buddy, not everything's about you." Ariadne's gloved fingertips are at the small of Yusuf's back, guiding him towards the door, and oh, Arthur knows that, of course he does. He takes a glance out the window where the sky is bright and blue and ambling towards dusk. It looks lovely and cold. A very large part of Arthur wants to ask, ‘take me with you?’ but he supposes that would defeat a lot of alternate purposes in one fell swoop.

“Have fun,” he says instead. 

“That’s the plan,” Yusuf says. He reaches behind him to grab both of Ariadne’s hands. He releases one when they reach the door, but keeps the other.

Once the door is shut, the silence that settles over the living room is thick, not uncomfortable, just noticeable.

In the quiet that follows, Eames grabs onto Arthur’s knee and shakes it back and forth a little. “The thing that I was trying to say,” he says, “is that I miss you too, when you’re not around.”

Arthur looks at Eames’ hand on his knee. “What?”

Eames takes his hand away, he props his chin on it, elbow on his knee, and Arthur follows it up, looks at the place where his fingers drum along his cheek. Eames shrugs. “I didn’t say it yesterday. I figured if I didn’t say it, you might never know it, you know?”

“Okay,” Arthur says.

“So while you’re missing me, I’m missing you. Between the two of us, we do a lot of missing,” Eames says, as though Arthur needs some kind of refresher. Arthur may need a refresher. 

“Okay,” Arthur says again, only it comes out differently. It comes out kind of soft around the edges and muffled, so close to Eames’ mouth.

It’s a little kiss, but Arthur rubs a thumb over the rough stubble on Eames jaw and Eames squeezes at Arthur’s bicep, and then it’s over almost as soon as it’s begun.

Arthur’s slow to open his eyes, but the first thing he sees is Eames half smiling at him, then Eames leaning in again. Eames hand has migrated to Arthur’s waist, warm and broad over his sleep shirt. He goes straight for Arthur’s ear and whispers low and intimate, “You mentioned something about coffee?”

Arthur laughs, but stops short when Eames follows it up with his teeth on his earlobe.

The only thing Arthur can think is that they may have succeeded in making things exponentially worse. Arthur’s going to miss him like crazy now. Arthur misses him on his walk to the kitchen.

-

They’d agreed. After Arthur made good on making coffee, they’d agreed that they would hold off for the remainder of the job, and then they’d have all the time in the world (or upwards of three months, depending on the next job) to see if anything amounted to anything at all. It was all very adult.

But Arthur gets a text from Eames at 5:30 in the morning. It’s Eames. Eames is complaining about his bed. There are a lot of sad faces that Arthur has an inappropriate reaction to.

Eames picks up on the first ring.

“Are you texting me from the same house, Eames?”

“Are you phoning me from the same house, Arthur?” Eames always was prone to answering a question with a question.

Arthur ignores him and jumps ahead about four potentially funny but probably not really exchanges. “I thought you slept on the couch specifically because your bed was lumpy?”

Eames sighs straight into the phone. It’s loud enough that Arthur has to pull the phone away. He comes back in on, “...pulling an all nighter in the living room, the bastards.”

“Hmm,” Arthur says, the early hour making itself known with an intense wave of drowsiness. Arthur rolls on his side and pulls the blankets up his shoulder. “My bed has no lumps.”

Eames is quiet on the other end, as is his wont. “Is that an invitation, or are you rubbing it in?”

Arthur shuts his eyes. “Figure it out, Eames,” Arthur says and hangs up.

Everything about Eames is ice cold when he crawls into bed. Everything but the way he gets close. 

“Fuck,” Arthur says when Eames puts his icy hands on Arthur’s stomach.

“Sorry,” Eames says. “It’s cold out. Haven’t had a chance to warm up yet.” He’s not even particularly lascivious about it, but Arthur can feel it, the low grade arousal that comes from getting Eames within touching distance. It would be so easy to go from low grade to high; Arthur wouldn’t even have to try. 

But Arthur has to be up in under two hours and Eames has been up for just over twenty four. They’re getting close to the finish line, and Eames has to maintain his position at the lab and pull duty going under with Ariadne, designing the first level and getting to know the second. All this in addition to his normal skill set.

Eames wriggles and shifts until Arthur slings an arm over him and says, “Go to sleep, Eames.”

Eames breathes out and it’s minty and much warmer than the rest of him and it makes Arthur think that one kiss goodnight couldn’t hurt, not when they’re already curled up and in bed.

It doesn’t, not in the long run. Arthur gets up when he’s supposed to and leaves Eames in his warm bed, exactly like he said he would, doesn’t linger at all. And if he thinks about him now and again, it’s nothing that he wouldn’t have done anyway.

When he gets home after his particularly long workday, Eames is already gone. 

Arthur grumbles ineffectually about muddy shoes in his path. He eats dinner and puts a plate in the fridge for Eames. He talks to Ariadne and Yusuf about the job, because none of them are content to leave work at work. He watches something full of plot holes that Yusuf loves and Ariadne loathes. 

The last thing he does before he turns in is write ‘come to bed’ in sharpie on an orange post it note and slap it on the upstairs bathroom mirror.


End file.
